The Cupped Palms of False Idols
by Shikijika
Summary: Blaine-centric. In which Blaine pretends to not have issues with inferiority complexes and everything correlating to '70s British rock music. Or it's something like that, probably. Sex and religious themes within!


**i**.

Blaine's mom is forever receiving flowers. Big sweeping glories of stargazer lilies sometimes, painted fuchsia in daubed brush-strokes over every curling petal, the orange burn pollen staining the marble fireplace; sometimes there are roses in the shades of summer, cream and saffron and coral in the glass vase heading the dining room table; and when Blaine was younger, drops of daises and bluebells would find themselves neatly pinned nests in dark curls. The lilies are beautiful – gifts from one of her clients no doubt (because dad knows she prefers geraniums), and therefore ones to tease her about later – but the wildflowers have their own quiet sepia charm to Blaine.

The first time Blaine brings Kurt home, during the summer of roses and poppies, Kurt breathes in as Blaine leads him through the front door and sighs a padded exhale on its closing. There's no one home, and Blaine relaxes where he hadn't noticed being tense before. He looks over at Kurt's little pleased expression, and cocks his head. "What?"

"Your house smells like a florist's wet dream," Kurt answers, his smile growing as he closes his eyes and breathes in again. The twisting feeling in Blaine's chest squeezes tighter and his fingers curl a little more around Kurt's in matching tones.

"Maybe it is one," Blaine grins, waggling his eyebrows. "I guess you're going to have to put your Broadway dreams to bed and surround yourself in florals, 'cause you just found your future calling."

He tugs gently at Kurt's hand and leads him through the hall into the living room, immaculate as always as long as you forgave the fireplace for its occasional sputtering of soot onto the cream carpet. On their way, Kurt huffs lightly behind him. "As much as I admire the scents, I think I'll pass on that one, if you don't mind." He pauses for a moment, glancing first at the burst of poppies with their languid drooping flowers, soon to wither and drop off altogether – the poppies never last, which is a shame, because Blaine likes the sun-bright orange and the soft undertones of lilac between them – and then the more traditional bouquet of roses in his mother's favourite vase on the mahogany sideboard. "Your mom must be popular."

Blaine shrugs, stepping forward and tracing one of his fingers over the rim of the glass vase on the sideboard, watching the heavy rose petals quiver as he brushed past them. "She's on good terms with all the local florists. For obvious reasons."

"I still can't believe your mom is an interior designer," Kurt sighs a little more dramatically than the situation warrants, his eyes glittering like pale stars when Blaine looks back up at him. "No wonder your house is so – _light_. The décor is fantastic."

"You can tell her all about it when she gets back," Blaine smiles, watching Kurt's awed expression slide over the high arch of the ceiling and incredible amount of French windows letting the afternoon sunlight bounce off the neutral walls. It wasn't a lie; his mom would probably come home sometime tonight. Eventually.

But he doesn't really want to think about that, so he doesn't. Instead, Blaine fiddles again with one of the rose stems, twisting the defanged greenery – a nervous habit of his – between his fingers for a moment before he pulls out one of the white ones. He snaps the stem into something more manageable – "Blaine, what –" – and slips it behind Kurt's right ear, tipping it gently until it stays perched precariously on its minute ledge.

There's a quiet pause, where they're standing a little too close to each other, Blaine perhaps leaning in a little too far with his nose brushing Kurt's in a one-sided kiss. But then Kurt laughs, a soft little bubble of sound, and tells him that he's like a middle schooler with a crush on his favourite teacher, honestly, Blaine. His smile prints the dimples in his cheeks with pleasure, and Blaine tilts his head to kiss them away.

It doesn't stop there, though. Blaine keeps a watch on the little flower blossom the rest of the night, where it transfers from behind Kurt's ear to curving between the spaces of his fingers to resting just above Kurt's heart when he stretches back and listens to snatches of songs and the croon of Blaine's voice accompanying them. Kurt will join in sometimes, but only when he likes the song; later, Blaine will have started a small collection of musical soundtracks, but for now there's only the steady drum-beat against his thigh and the sweet repetition of lyrics over Blaine's lips. Somewhere, sometimes, they disappear in a haze of heat that sweeps him off his game like a gale in an inferno.

_Walked out this morning, I don't believe what I saw_

_A hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore –_

_Seems like I'm not alone in being alone _

_A hundred billion castaways looking for a home –_

But Kurt keeps toying with the flower, stroking his thumbs over the fragile petals and tugging the stem between his fingers back and forth, and when Blaine walks Kurt to the porch the petals are already wrinkled with wear, waxen without water. Kurt leans to kiss him then, under the harsh light of the porch, his forearms resting loosely around Blaine's neck and draping Blaine in a familiar twist of scents. Some slightly sharp moisturiser and cleansers but wholly Kurt underneath, warm and sweet making Blaine's head heady with the twined curls of tongues and eventual grazes of fingers before Kurt turns his back, smiling.

It's the smile, Blaine thinks with a funny twist in his stomach. The smile on top of that, on top of the flower that doesn't mean anything to anyone falling apart in Kurt's hands. Inevitable, yes, but sad all the same.

Blaine doesn't understand, so he goes back inside and breathes in as he goes.

**ii**.

The stage lights are fading glitters in the spots of his eyes and Rachel is looking at him like he's supposed to be the expert, and all Blaine can do is shuffle on his feet and mutter something about waiting. It sounds so trite now, ridiculous where it sounds perfectly rational when he talks about it just between him and Kurt. Artie is looking at him and Rachel with his face incredulous and judging, and Blaine looks away and wonders why it's so important, anyway. They were doing fine. Coach Beiste kept crying every time they sang – which was really very flattering and sweet – and even Rachel had stopped breaking in the middle of rehearsal and correcting Blaine's every accidental bum note, and he just couldn't see the problem.

There was nothing wrong with waiting, and there was nothing wrong with persevering. (There were a lot of articles on the Internet that agreed with him, at any rate.)

So he had pushed it away, let the thought fade into the back of his skull for later consideration, and by the time _Love Is The Drug_ comes up on shuffle and Blaine's body suddenly feels the need to dance – dancing is so great, so light and joyous on the balls of his feet; even if Kurt says that Blaine looks like Finn minus the ego-protecting inhibition ("I'm not entirely sure whether that makes you worse or better,") when he dances, he always gets laughter and kisses afterwards – he's almost forgotten all about it. He starts burbling cheerfully to Kurt about his mad passionate love for the seventies and Bryan Ferry and he smiles contentedly through his words, because he'd never rather be anywhere other than here.

It doesn't hit him until Kurt sits up on his bed and starts off with "Do you think I'm boring?" quite how pressing this issue is from all sides, Kurt's forehead crinkling a little and making Blaine swallow awkwardly and try to laugh off the subject. Blaine keeps his doubts quiet, yes, smiling and teasing instead and catching Kurt's mouth and melting into each other. Today Kurt pushes him down flat onto the comforter, the pressure of his breathing and the slip of his tongue more _there_ than usual, and Blaine's skin prickles all over at the fire building across his veins.

The cash register intro of _Money _(Pink Floyd; his '70s British rock playlist is a goldmine) flicks on in the background, the drum beat kicking in a smooth rhythm as Blaine presses their bodies closer and cups Kurt's face firmly in his palms and tries not to think about further – further – further. Because sometimes – a lot of times – he does think about it, thinks about the backs of Kurt's knees and the creases of his thighs, of the scratch of Kurt's voice that twists between his words after they kiss for too long, the long sweeping angles of his back under palm and fingertip.

_Money! – it's a crime_

_Share it fairly, but don't take a slice of my pie –_

He wants to discover what Kurt thinks about, now that he knows that he thinks about it at all. But Blaine doesn't ask; he sings, instead.

**iii**.

Blaine doesn't always understand what it is he's thinking about. Sometimes it's just ridiculous and unrealistic, addled with corny pornographic dialogue that makes him laugh and flush in embarrassment to the eyes of nobody as he turns off the water and braces his back against the cold tiles. But that's funny, because in the moment it's the hottest thing he can think of, little images and sounds pretending to be Kurt's voice – because it's always Kurt now – appearing behind Blaine's eyelids and lingering in his ears.

It's some sort of infection clouding his brain, surely, because it's there all the time in the back of his head and he can't get it to go away. Artie's stupid comment that means nothing and Kurt's quiet thoughtful questioning have only made things worse, and then there's Sebastian, who makes no sense to him at all. Yet still, Kurt said yes to the invitation to Scandals and there's a fake ID in his wallet that claims he's almost twice his actual age, and maybe those are enough to make him feel like he's grown-up enough to want these things and experience them, too.

The latter half makes Blaine's ribs feel tight against his skin like they no longer fit, so he goes downstairs in pyjama pants and makes a sandwich and tries not to think too hard about it. So he's sitting on one of the counters in the kitchen, swinging his legs and bumping his heels against the cupboard doors in the process, chewing through Nutella and banana on wholemeal bread – he wondered when his father was going to get bored of Mom's health kick and replace the bread this time; Blaine was counting on it happening before the end of the week – when said father pads into the kitchen, a wide yawn stretching his features behind the shield of one forearm. He's already fully dressed, which would be strange on a Sunday morning if it were anyone but Blaine's dad. "Morning, Dad."

"Blaine, get off the counter," is his dad's tired way of saying _hey son_, so Blaine shrugs and bounces back onto his feet without complaint, leaning against the counter instead. There's a long pursed sigh, and his dad frowns at the overhead cupboard's offerings before closing them and looking back at Blaine's sandwich. "Still with the wholemeal?"

"There's still half a loaf left, should you choose to suffer through it," Blaine grins; his dad wrinkles his nose and turns away from the traitorous bread bin. Blaine shoves the last curve of crust into his mouth and swallows properly before continuing, because God knows he could recite a 'mind your manners' lecture at the drop of a hat. "It's really not that bad, Dad, seriously."

"It is definitely that bad," Blaine's corrected, but his dad has a small smile on his face as he flips open the cupboards in hope of something that is breakfast-worthy and not one of Mom's surreptitiously placed health bars. For some reason, this makes that hopeful feeling twist through the displacement in Blaine's chest.

Blaine watches his dad meander around the kitchen's offerings for what seems like a long time before he suddenly feels the urge to say something – anything, really. "The show starts on Friday," he says like it doesn't matter.

"Mhm," his father mumbles absently, giving up on the notion of food he will actually eat and going on an expedition for his favoured mug instead. "That's good. You're the lead, right?"

"Tony? Yeah."

"Wouldn't have expected anything else," his father says, which is another one of his hidden berations. Blaine just looks at him, and after a moment he has at least the good graces to shift awkwardly on his feet and not meet Blaine's gaze. "I can't go, there's a –"

"– conference," Blaine nods, his mild glower sliding away to disapprove at the fridge instead, where the calendar – this year's theme is exceptionally boring pictures of birds in flight – betrays all knowledge of conferences (black pen) and design shows (red) and school musicals (purple). "I know." You have better things to do than watch me waste my time.

"Don't interrupt," is the response, complete with a quirk of an eyebrow as the correct coffee mug is finally retrieved from the depths of kitchen disarray with a small 'aha!'. Blaine braces his hands against the smooth wooden cupboards, twisting his mouth and dropping his gaze to watch his toes press against the stone tile. (Rustic.) "If I've told you once, I've told you a million times. Is your mom busy those days?"

Blaine shrugs. His mom is not very good at remembering to label all of her important dates on the family calendar, and as such it's a gamble as to whether she will be or not.

"Then you should ask." (She's more interested than I'll ever be.) The coffee machine whirrs into life with a click, its amiable humming a strange background track. They both look at it, as though it holds some answers. It doesn't, and Blaine watches his father tip his head up to the ceiling before adding a postscript. "When she gets home."

"I will," Blaine promises, although it wouldn't matter whether he did or not.

After that they don't say anything. The crack in the conversation is always there when they talk anyway, but in the silence it yawns and gapes and unsettles the both of them. The coffee machine hums and clicks and pours with a mechanical leisure, and Blaine stares at it and wills himself to bring up all the things tumbling through his head. That's what dads are for, right?

(Dads are for lots of things, including the 'you're ruining your life and, more importantly, your college applications' lecture and the 'this won't last forever, because you're still an immature little boy with no capacity for these feelings you're pretending to understand' arguments. Like Blaine doesn't know already.)

"I've got homework to do," he offers on his way out, because he is a coward.

There's a snort from the open door. "You should really be doing it earlier than this, Blaine."

Yeah, well, whatever.

**iv**.

Beautiful, yes.

The world is beautiful and _they_ are beautiful, bright and alive with starlight and music. Kurt had maybe been a little shy (sober) at first, sitting at the bar just watching while Blaine giggled to himself and tried to dance with the air while Sebastian kept getting in the way of his _groove_, damn, club can't handle me! But then he had appeared when Blaine had cocked his head and beamed please, come on, this is supposed to be fun and it's not fun without you, and Kurt is smiling his beautiful smile – which is different from all his other ones, because Blaine thinks that maybe it's just for him, sometimes, when he is half-delirious and blind with the tumbling grips of first love – and they're giggling and falling against each other. Or maybe that's just Blaine. His feet feel sort of weird all of a sudden, so maybe it is just him.

Blaine isn't telling some tipsy half-truth when he says that he wants to make art and help people, although maybe the part about living in a shitty Ohio bar is a little exaggerated. But he would live anywhere with Kurt, even if it was cramped and thick with the smell of sweat (although he wonders how Kurt would manage to deal with that), and he would maybe teach and paint and draw for a living and get high school kids to _care_, care where they never did when he was at school – and Kurt would be lit up on Broadway electrics and would come home to Blaine, and would maybe concede to soft charcoal sketches of the broad slope of his shoulders or the neat tip of his head when he's listening, fallen and crushed into smudges across their backs when the pursuit is abandoned for other things.

He would, if Blaine were so lucky.

Blaine can't even draw, so he doesn't know why he's even thinking about this.

He doesn't say those parts out loud, because his insides clench uncomfortably at the thought and his ribs increasingly – awake? there? – under his skin.

Blaine follows the curve of Kurt's neck almost on instinct, murmuring "Come on, kiss me," although that maybe doesn't make sense and barely noticing Kurt seeming to step around him, close without being too close, his head tipping out of the way at exactly the wrong moments. God, Kurt smells so good – like – like – like Kurt, all clean and heavy and maybe a little bit smoky from the bar and oh, please.

But Kurt keeps saying no, no, something about Blaine having to sit in the back even though he doesn't feel sick at all, no. Blaine's head is full of light and glowing, or something, and in the glare of the streetlights Kurt shines like he always does but suddenly more, whatever he's saying disappearing into the night air like dying fireflies before Blaine really hears it. Blaine's limbs are on autopilot, it seems, because suddenly Blaine has a lapful of warm squirmy Kurt and he's so _beautiful_ and what if – what if this never happens again – he has to, he has to now, let's just do it, I want you so bad –

And Kurt's eyes flutter for a moment, wide and blue, and Blaine's heart tugs at every string holding his pathetic self together because this person is real and that's _incredible_ and he wants to show him just how incredible and perfect he is, please, please (you make me sing).

It doesn't hit him until he's storming away how much he doesn't deserve to.

The cold November air is sobering in the worst possible manner, making his stomach churn at the wind cutting through his clothes and slipping under the open shirt collar. Blaine shudders a heavy breath, the exhale seeming to rattle in his chest like pebbles clattering to shore, and turns to make the right way home.

He doesn't notice, or at least acknowledge, the black Navigator crawling across the road a little ways behind until Blaine opens the gate to his house.

**v**.

Blaine doesn't really know why he does some things. His instincts are always two steps ahead of him, it seems; his head will think of just the right thing to say right after it's too late to take back his flawed phrasings, traitorous thing that it is.

Yes. He says a lot of stupid things.

So instead, he repeats words that someone else has written for – not him, his _role_ – and holds hands with Rachel and sings, sings for everyone and no one, until the heaviness in his chest almost flutters away, harmless. His ankle almost drops him during a move – and he sees Mike's surprised expression before he even really feels the weakness in the joint – and Blaine's heart plummets as he slides gracelessly back onto his feet, the tight feeling returning, sinking into his skin like it never left.

Blaine can't even use performing as an escape from this, it seems, but damn if he won't try. Everyone claps each other on the back after the show and after they all decide to ignore the mess made in the stands, they make plans – hey, Blaine, are you coming to Breadstix with us? Maybe later, sure, okay – and disappear into the dismal gloom of the auditorium. Some forgetful light tech has forgotten to turn off the spots, and Blaine revels in the uncomfortable heat teasing his cheeks into a flare as he moves, shifts, repeats in a solid wave. He hasn't seen Kurt since the little flash of his face at the rush of applause after the show ("Cast bows! Come on!"), but then, he hasn't really been seeking him out backstage.

The auditorium is peaceful. The quiet leaves Blaine with only his own thoughts to spare, however, and he's found that he's gotten quite sick of them recently. He frowns and chews his lip and pushes everything away as he turns across the length of the stage, back and forward over and over, and the trance-like white is just edging into the corners of his eyes when there are footsteps and voice and oh.

'Oh' is a funny placemark for such a conversation, but when Blaine tries to remember it later, that's all he can hear. Oh, his apologies are never as pathetic and tiny in his head; oh, he wishes Kurt would stop bringing up the Rachel thing, because it makes Blaine want to slam his own hand in a drawer; and oh, Kurt wants to go to his house.

Blaine almost asks why (why would you ever), but the question never makes it.

But when all things are said and done, Blaine can't help but be selfish. It's a funny kind of selfish, though; a kind where he's not sure where he's going wrong, exactly, but he knows that he is. Catholic guilt, maybe. And it could be; when the lights are dim from Blaine's fader switch and the only sounds are soft and sweet diegetics in rustles and kisses, Blaine finds that there's some innate desire to fall to his knees and pray.

His family stopped going to church after his Confirmation – they had never been hugely religious, and it was an understated step out from monotonous obligations – but still, Blaine can feel the itch in his palms when he kisses Kurt. When they curl together in limbed tangles and smile, Blaine sometimes fantasises that he can hear the roll of hymns in the echoes of high church ceilings; _Hosannah in excelsis_! It's ridiculous, the way they echo in his head, grandiose and sprawling despite himself. Despite what he's doing, certainly, which would probably make his old Sunday school teacher call him things quite the opposite of _lamb_ and _angel_.

Now he whispers things properly, dropping into the air like aural kisses. "You're beautiful," he says, when their fingers are entwined and Blaine is nuzzling into the side of Kurt's neck because that's where he smells the best. Their skin is warm and sensitive where they're pressed against each other bare chest to hip, and Blaine hasn't quite stopped panicking because this is actually happening, yes, they're not going to break away and cool off and have Kurt decimate Blaine at racing games and first-person shooters instead –

"And you're wonderful," Kurt smiles, his eyes bright in the dim lighting, glittering like pale stars. His hair is tufting in amusing waves across Blaine's pillows already, Blaine sees when he lifts his head back up, and he's never looked more adorable with his dimples printing into his cheeks, his smile wide and honest. "Are we actually going to do this, or are we just going to stroke each other's egos and call it mutual masturbation?"

Blaine feels a strange shiver crawl up his spine, and he rolls his shoulders back as though to catch it. "I like it when you say things like that."

"Compliments or the word 'masturbation'?"

Blaine laughs at that, a higher sound than usual, teeth shown in a bright smile perhaps unsuited for the occasion. "Both!"

"You are a very strange person," Kurt says seriously, his smirk appearing again but laced with a sweet curl of fondness at the edges. Blaine shrugs one shoulder in response – he's never pretended to be anything other than slightly odd, he supposes – and nudges Kurt's nose with his own. "But I suppose I can live with that," Kurt finishes with a dramatic flourish of a sigh, nudging Blaine back, twice and three times and a couple more until they're shifting closer and entering into the worst mock-fight in existence until they laugh at their time-wasting and stop.

So they stop, but their hearts start to flutter harder, like a kick-start. Blaine glances down where their fingers have braided together, and further where their knees and calves and thighs have looped themselves into loose twists around each other. "I really want to kiss you right now," Blaine says quietly.

Kurt's eyes glitter as he smiles this time, coy and confident as he looks at Blaine through his eyelashes. "Permission granted," he says, his voice low, and it should be ridiculous but it's not – it's – calming, somehow, as their skin presses warm together, Kurt's hands moving to rest on the dip of Blaine's hips and Blaine's automatically sliding to cup Kurt's face (and there's maybe something deeper to that, but mostly it's because he likes to stroke Kurt's cheeks with his thumbs; sometimes it makes Kurt laugh and whisper _ticklish_ against his mouth). It's close and crowding in a way that belies the warm comfort Blaine feels there, the simple awareness of Kurt's presence under his fingers, in every inhale, smooth over his tongue as they move gentle together. It's quiet, understated, yes.

Blaine prays mindlessly. _Hail Mary, full of grace – _they play-fight over their positions, laughing at each other when Blaine distracts a pinned Kurt with curious swirls of tongue over his nipples – _hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come –_ but Kurt crowns his victory eventually, crowing in his contented little manner, rolling his hips down just a little, watching Blaine's eyelids flutter shut at the suddenly timid movement – and he's got the words all mixed up in his head, this is stupid – and he lets himself submit, drops his defenses like white-hot pokers, although oh, when has that ever turned out for the better before?

Weaknesses are hard to hide. He almost cries when Kurt makes this soft sound he's never heard before, something sweet and curled away from his singing voices and lighter than his speaking tones. But Blaine shakes it off, rises up and lets his mouth catch the little ragged gasps instead, kissing loose and running his tongue across the bow of Kurt's lips, one hand cupping Kurt's neck as Kurt ruts staccato and spent into the other. Strokes Kurt through it, rolls his thumb around the slit, slips his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of Kurt's neck as they smile strangely against each other's lips in shy brushes.

Everything is loose-limbed and disconnected from each other, unravelling like the ends of ribbons when Kurt comes all over Blaine's fingers and whispers _oh fuck_ like a secret between their tongues. Blaine likes the way it sounds on Kurt, a little unrestrained, and then frowns and wishes he hadn't. But he relents, lets his eyes fall shut and his head tip back into the pillows instead, Kurt's fingers clenching into half-fists over Blaine's chest as they slide into a slow, rhythmic (like the foreboding beat of a silent drum) pace again.

Afterwards – afterwards, where Blaine cringes because he is inelegant and awkward and loud and nothing in comparison – Blaine turns their position over and covers Kurt with himself. There is the most fleeting of pauses in his thoughts before he decides.

He kisses Kurt's palms, his bottom lip dragging across Kurt's Mercury line to his fate line to heart line at the base of his index finger, mouthing wet trails in his aimless path, running the tip of his tongue around the swirls of Kurt's knuckles in turns and dips. He kisses Kurt's wrists, his nose nuzzling the soft pulse point, tracing the lines of turquoise veins like some jewel rarer than their colour implies. Blaine is kneeling at the pew now, between Kurt's legs, his fingers curled around Kurt's wrist as he pulls sharp little breaths from Kurt's throat with the swirl of his tongue and lips against the crook of Kurt's elbow. It looks silly and sloppy, but he doesn't care.

"What are you doing?" Kurt asks in his tipped-head amused fashion; Blaine looks up, and pointedly kisses the line of Kurt's elbow again as though this explains anything. Of course it doesn't, but Blaine hears the delightful little hitch in Kurt's voice before he speaks and that perhaps will suffice. "You know, blind idol worship is a dangerous path to go down. Not that I entirely mind, of course, but just in case you file a lawsuit."

Blaine hums but doesn't immediately respond, letting go of Kurt's wrist and curling over to Kurt's side again, one thumb stroking just under the hem of Kurt's t-shirt. And Kurt shifts and mumbles something about the potent stench of gel when Blaine tucks his head under Kurt's chin, but they don't make an attempt to rectify it. "Mm. Don't care," Blaine says with a smile, glancing up even though Kurt is mostly a featureless blur of neck and jaw at this angle anyway.

"Ten minutes later for that?" Kurt says, his voice incredulous in spite of his clear lack of accurate time-keeping. "There's just no competition in this relationship, is there."

"No, no, none at all. I am in full surrender to Sir Kurt, lord of pithy retorts! I lie prostrate at his service."

At that, Kurt snorts and clumsily kisses the top of Blaine's forehead, his lips staying for moments straying from time. Blaine beams like sunlight (unlikely in November), and relaxes in the warm tingling afterglow (ah) across his skin. "You're not so bad yourself."

And Blaine forgets for a little bit, wrapped up in the way Kurt speaks with nuanced levels to his tone, the way his chest hums under Blaine's ear when Kurt laughs, and the soft even rising of his breathing when he falls asleep. Kurt sleeps. Blaine stares at the framed pictures on his wall and wonders, with the steady beat of his heart the only listener to the songs he won't sing.

Not that the airy breaths of song will sway the winter breezes; they are too timid, too full of false promises and false bravado and genuine failures for that. But the soft layer of smooth vocals will buy him time, Blaine knows, time wrapped favourably in the rising and falling of slow sleeping breaths, temporary at his side.


End file.
